


Stages of Grief

by RitaM



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: AU, F/M, Wistful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7352113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RitaM/pseuds/RitaM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's marriage died in the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stages of Grief

Jack's marriage died in the war.

Since the war his interest in sex had been nil. Gone was the young constable who'd spent a lot of time convincing his blushing bride to try new things. The silent, grim man who replaced him had little interest in bedroom matters. At least since Rosie had proven unwilling to speak of, or remember the war. They tried at first, but it felt like there was a wall between them. From a once beloved husband he became an increasingly unwanted reminder of carefree youth. They couldn't recapture the magic of the past, and the present offered so little. And so one day, Jack found himself in court, testifying in divorce proceedings, face empty as if it was happening to somebody else.

All the whisky in the country couldn't quite banish the heartache and he found himself rather close to tears that day. The costume party was a good enough distraction, even if Miss Fisher's flirtatiousness was difficult to bear - he never felt more like women's fool. Mark Antony indeed. Thankfully she understood and gave him some breathing space, even if, ever so briefly, he wished she had held him close. He knew damn well that trying to forget never worked, but he wished it all the same.

He didn't forget. He went to work, chased criminals, let Miss Fisher feed him some criminally delicious baked goods, and if the distraction she provided was welcome, he never said a thing. The flirtation became a game for both of them - she tried to embarrass him, he resisted. His poker face mostly served him well enough, although there were moments that he could not withstand easily. That painting, for one, was firmly etched into his memory. He studiously avoided thinking of it, even if his subconscious disagreed.

He went on. One foot in front of the other. And if the cloying love story between Hugh and Dot set his teeth on edge sometimes, he never let them know. He sought her out more frequently, outside of chasing criminals and death-defying stunts. He came to her parlour, ostensibly to exchange case notes. Once became more, became frequent, became habitual. And one day he woke up and his marriage didn't hurt quite so much. One day he realized he was preoccupied with the way her eyes drifted to his lips. She did it all the time, of course, baiting, swaying her hips, all red lipstick, head thrown back in laughter, outrageous dresses. But she also did it when there was no point to prove, seemingly unaware. It was endearing. It was magnetic. It made him burn.

When it happened, it happened easily. Another whisky, another evening, another post-case conversation. She'd left the parlour to bring something - a book, perhaps, something to show him, something from an anecdote she'd been telling. He was feeling restless. Impulsively, he got up, pacing, only to turn around and find her... there. Startled, mouth artlessly open. He slid to his knees, brought his face to her belly and closed his eyes, feeling her hands in his hair.

They stayed like that for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write porn, but I seem to 1. be unable to write without character background 2. be stuck on "wistful". Must try harder... *snickers*


End file.
